


Hiraeth (AKA: the burnout fic)

by rivkael



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: Burnout - Freeform, Depression, Gen, Healing, Polyamory, Suicidal Thoughts, longfic, mental health, running away from responsibilities
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-11
Updated: 2018-12-11
Packaged: 2019-09-16 02:29:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16945266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rivkael/pseuds/rivkael
Summary: Illidan can’t- he can’t do this. Not anymore..Hiraeth: ‘hir-eyeth’ a homesickness for someone or something you can never see again. A nostalgia for a time lost to you.





	Hiraeth (AKA: the burnout fic)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [flyingllamas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flyingllamas/gifts), [Kangoo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kangoo/gifts), [Windymon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Windymon/gifts), [hunterx700](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=hunterx700), [drowsyfantasy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/drowsyfantasy/gifts), [shinyforce](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shinyforce/gifts).



> I started writing this in the winter of 2017, when I was dangerously close to burning out mentally myself - indeed for a long time, this story was simply known as ‘the burnout fic’. I have three chapters written as of this posting, so do not expect fast updates. 
> 
> There will be no romance for Illidan in this fic.
> 
> Please, enjoy!

It is late in the night when Illidan finally feels himself give. It’s been days since he’s slept, hours since he’s had time to himself and ten thousand years since he’s truly felt safe. Vashj is dead, Kael’thas has betrayed them, and his demon hunters are away on a mission in Mardum. He hasn’t been listening to Veras Darkshadow (who has been standing before him for the last twenty minutes, reporting on some espionage mission or another) so has no qualms just walking away. 

 

Walk away he does, ignoring the surprised, “Lord Illidan?” that follows him. He’s not too sure where he’s going, only that he needs to be alone and he needs to be alone _now._ _Yesterday_ , even.

 

He finds himself outside, slightly unsure. The harsh smell of Outland will never quite be home, but it isn’t necessarily  _ not _ home. He named himself its Lord, after all, and where else does he have? Not the forests of his youth, that’s for sure.

 

He takes flight, leaping into the air without a second thought. He beats his wings and climbs into the sky and finds an air current to take him away, allowing him the peace of simple-minded gliding. The movement of his thoughts is slow and sluggish and he vaguely contemplates that he’s been cursed somehow, but something tells Illidan that this is all him. It’s a bone-deep exhaustion that weighs him down despite the fact he’s hundreds of feet in the sky. 

 

It’s cold up here. 

 

Time passes in stops and starts. His muscles do not tire, merely numb. He travels the breadth of Shadowmoon before his wings decide enough is enough, and begin to ache.

 

Even in his muddled state, Illidan recognises that he’s going to have to land, and soon. Terokkar Forest appears below as he drops in altitude, and he hopes that he won’t land in the lap of a demon or some angry Watchers (though he holds many back at the Temple, he doesn’t doubt there are more); he can recognise that he’s in no condition to fight. Focusing his spectral vision with some effort, Illidan finds a gap in the trees and circles downwards.

 

(The final moments of exercise are the hardest. You begin to anticipate the ending and wish for it, strongly. Aches seem greater, tiredness increases.)

 

His wings give out twenty feet from the ground, and he crashes against a tree trunk, coming to rest within its wide and tall roots. 

 

He’s nearer to Shattrath City than he thought, he realises when he raises his head. It is barely two hundred feet away. He can see its walls, the sway of Light magic and wards protecting it.

 

(He wonders what would have happened if he’d crashed within.)

 

Without his permission, his wings fall, relaxing over and behind him as his head drops to rest on his arm. He’s so  _ tired. _

 

He falls asleep there, half sprawled, half curled up against the roots of a tree. His consciousness drifts as he finally lets himself rest, uncaring of the city a stone’s throw away.

 

.

.

 

The sound of arguing voices breaks through the haze of sleep, but it doesn’t put him on alert. There’s something different about them, they’re high and soft and… young; clear of the pain that inevitably comes with age.

 

He shifts his head so that one of his horns digs into the ground, grunting, and the voices stop for a moment, then one of them comes closer. He’s facing the tree, so he can’t see them, but his hearing is sharp and he can feel the vibrations in the ground. A small being... a child? 

 

“Poke him!” Someone speaks in accented orcish. 

 

“Is he a demon?”

 

“Demons are red, stupid! You’re stupid!”

 

“I’m not stupid!”

 

The one who had carefully stepped over his wing is standing right next to his head. They are so close he can hear their breathing. “Get me a stick!”

 

There is a bit of shuffling, and another child edges around his wing. Then something pokes at his back, just where his wings join. “He’s not an illusion.” 

 

Illidan moves again, this time pressing his face more into his arm. He doesn’t want to move. They’re just children after all, not Wardens seeking to carve into him like feast meat or lock him under the ground to be forgotten.

 

“Mister? Are you hurt?” One of the ones close to him boldly touches his shoulder for a moment, repeating the action more bravely when he barely reacts.

 

He can’t open his lips for more than a sigh. 

 

“It looks like he fell out of a tree,” one of the children pipes up.

 

“Kids? Where did you run off to?” A slightly older voice this time. Not an adult, but an adolescent maybe. “...Eshi, Alleath could you come over here please?”

 

“But Maphas, he’s hurt!”

 

The teenager must come closer, because his next speech is from almost beside the two children. “Is he now? Well, do you want me to have a look at him? Maybe could one of you run for help?” 

 

The children don’t speak for a moment. Illidan gets the impression that they’re looking at each other. “Nobody tell anyone!” someone says firmly. “Adults will ruin it.”

 

“What is he though?”

 

The adolescent, with his longer legs and bravery, steps over Illidan’s neck and kneels down in the space between him and the tree, even as a very young voice calls out in draenei, “Elekk!”

 

One of the children sighs. “He’s not an Elekk, Noraa.”

 

The adolescent kneeling before him touches his face very, very gently. He’s not sure whether he’s being offered comfort or if his health is being checked, but he leans his face into the touch and involuntarily makes a small rumbling sound. 

 

“He’s like… a draenei but... not?” he says, obviously confused. Illidan can tell that this one  _ is _ a draenei, just old enough for his voice to change but not for the bulk that follows. The Light swirls enough in him that his outline is visible with no effort on Illidan’s part. “He has elf ears.”

 

“Elekk! Purple, horns!” the same child insists. Several children sigh.

 

“You know what? Sure, Noraa. He’s an elekk.” The draenei before him touches his blindfold, and Illidan must let out some sort of protesting sound, for the hand is removed. 

 

“He’s tired, I think. Maybe hurt, but mostly tired.”

 

“Well, he can’t sleep like that!” a child calls out. “He doesn’t have a blanket or anything.” 

 

One of the children suddenly runs forward and bumps straight into Illidan’s back. There are several cries of alarm as the child begins scrambling his arm and side, and Illidan grunts a few times when the child’s hooves (a draenei) dig in or press against bruises. 

 

“Noraa! Don’t climb on him!” The older draenei manages to pull her off Illidan, but the child makes a quiet wailing noise. 

 

“Elekk,” she insists again.

 

There’s a bit of shuffling. “Oh, are you sure, Noraa?” The draenei is standing now, presumably holding Noraa, but then he bends down as she says again, “Elekk!”

 

“Be gentle, little sister. He’s sleepy.”

 

Noraa is put down and Illidan can barely make out her outline, too tired to concentrate on his vision. There’s something arcane to her, which makes it easier. She crawls close to him and presses something made of cloth between his arm and his side. A stuffed toy? He moves his arm as best he can, trying to figure out whether it truly is one.

 

“See? He likes it.” And then, before the older draenei can stop her, Noraa presses a kiss to Illidan’s cheek. 

 

Wonder fills him at this. These children who have seen nothing of the horror of the world, caring for him. Not being frightened of him. It almost makes him wish he could still weep.

 

“Noraa…” the older one sighs. Illidan can’t remember what they called him. He’s drifting off to sleep again, despite being surrounded by people. “Murzem, Medrogu, could you go to my house and ask my Papa for the big red blanket? Alleath, run home and find a nice cushion for his head. Lilem, go with her. Stay on the path and come straight back, understand?”

 

The voice is getting quieter, and Illidan’s wing falls to drape over more of his body as he falls back into unconsciousness.

.

.

 

The next time he wakes, he is much more alert. A few of his limbs have been moved a bit, but only adjustments. There is a soft blanket laid over him, covering him almost completely. A cushion has been slid under his head. The stuffed toy is still there, and from the noises, most of the children are playing nearby. However… there is someone sitting against his back. He lies still for a while, trying to figure out what they are doing. 

 

The rustle of a page being turned is a familiar enough sound, and he moves his head to let the person know he’s awake without disturbing them. 

 

However, as soon as he does, they freeze. He wonders if he’s scared them somehow, when they stand up and step over him to kneel by his face. It’s the adolescent draenei. “Are you feeling better?”

 

Illidan considers this. He’s still pretty tired, however now he can get words out. “...better than before,” he says haltingly.

 

“Are you hurt at all? I’m a student of the Light but I’m not that good at sensing injuries yet,” the young draenei babbles. So that explains the Light Illidan can see.

 

He takes a moment to take stock of his bruises from the crash. “Possibly a broken rib, I crash landed here. I was exhausted,” he says. He should really be getting back, but even the thought induces tiredness. “How long was I…?”

 

“We found you just after noon,” the draenei answers, sitting down properly. “It is now nearly dinner time - so about five hours.” Five hours, plus the sleep he’d gotten when he had first crashed… why was he still so tired, then?

 

Has it truly been so long since he slept that the equivalent of a full day’s sleep leaves him still as weak as a saber kitten? He can barely lift his head, for Goddess’ sake.

 

The draenei shifts his sitting position, perhaps to get Illidan’s attention. “Might I ask what you are? Only, you have hooves and horns like a draenei and ears like an elf and that’s not even mentioning the wings.”

 

Illidan hums as he considers what to tell the young one. Not the whole truth, naturally. Someone who has never seen a demon doesn’t need to know the horrors of the Legion. 

 

“I suppose,” he begins slowly, forming his words around his breaths so as to use less energy. “That I am... something new... Once I was an elf... but through magic my... body was changed.” the orcish word for elf is ‘Zun’dara’, a corruption of ‘Sin’dorei’,  and Illidan finds it a bit odd to refer to himself as such. 

 

The exhaustion sweeps over him once more, and he exhales, long and slow. He’s not going to sleep again, at least not right now, but he  _ definitely  _ needs more rest before he tries to return to the Temple…

 

—A nd just the thought of it makes him want to shudder. He  _ can’t _ do it right now, cannot go back. He’s allowed to take a holiday if he wants; he’s Illidan Stormrage. 

 

(His demon hunters don’t even come to mind; if he thinks of them, his responsibility to them will take over. Even his subconscious can recognise that that is not what he needs right now.)

 

He tries to force himself to  _ think _ , to use his head, but it’s like wading through mud up to his neck. He sighs quietly. 

 

“Do you… are you alright?” the young draenei asks gently. A perceptive one, it seems.

 

Illidan opens his mouth but the words do not make it out. Instead, he turns onto his front and buries his face back into the muscle of his arm and just  _ breathes _ .

 

“I’m Maphas, by the way,” the draenei says, and Illidan senses his hand hover awkwardly over his upper body, as though to offer comfort. Illidan grunts, frustrated at himself for not being able to respond. 

 

Then Maphas leans over and takes ahold of Illidan’s hightail, and begins to deftly untie the leather. Once the hair is freed, the draenei begins to run gentle fingers through it, teasing out some of the tangles slowly and without tugging. Illidan’s breath hitches, and some old knot in him eases slightly. To have a kind hand on him, simply being touched without the pretence of violence or manipulation, is something he has not felt in over ten thousand years. This child offers it so freely and part of Illidan worries that this boy’s kind heart will not be long for this world, if he can offer such kindness to a monster like him. 

 

They stay like this for a few minutes, quiet and simple and calm. It’s so  _ nice _ that Illidan feels like he could burst. He shakes slightly and breathes deeply and  _ wishes _ he could cry. 

 

He misses... something. What is there left to miss?

 

And then Noraa comes rushing over, alerted that he’s awake by his movements. The stuffed toy she gifted him is still there, pressed against his side, and once again she scrambles up him, on top of the blanket. This time, however, she sits between his wings. She weighs little enough that it doesn’t affect his breathing -even with a possible rib injury, and then she leans forwards and takes over from Maphas in combing out his hair.

 

“Name?” she asks, and it is much quieter than the last time Illidan heard her. Perhaps she has been told to keep her voice down, or maybe she is also strangely perceptive.

 

(Or perhaps his exhaustion has always been tangible, and his allies simply didn’t have the courage to do anything about it; to force him to rest, to care for him.

 

There’s something about the innocence of childhood.)

 

He doesn’t respond. He keeps his face pressed to his arm, breathing in and out steadily, unable to force words past his lips. He mouths his names silently;  _ Illidan, Betrayer, Stormrage _ , but he cannot put the effort into them to make them heard. 

 

The other children are still playing, and while he cannot tell what game, their cries aren’t cries of pain or anger. They are laughs, and shouts. It calms his soul that some people are still free from the horror and cruelty of war. The coolness of the air affirms the young draenei’s proclamation that he has slept most of the day away. A part of him worries about the coming night, and what it will mean for him. It has been so long since he has been this helpless, and his only protectors now are small and weak.

 

(But certainly fierce.)

 

He need not worry, though. The eldest child snaps his book shut after a time, leaving it on his back next to Noraa, and begins to order the children back into the woods. At first, Illidan thinks them to be abandoning him once more, but the children return as the heat of the sun nearly disappears below the horizon with the rewards of their adventures, some of which he wonders later were ill-begotten in the stealthy way that only children can go unnoticed.

 

Their task is not an easy one. Illidan has never been small at any point in his life, and he surely is not now. Still, the children make do, planting sticks and beams into the ground and draping blankets or tarps over them to make a shelter. He hears the strike of steel against flint, and realizes that one of them has lit a fire. After their frantic construction, most of the children disappear back into the woods, rubbing their eyes and their stomachs rumbling. A few remain behind and he realizes that they mean to keep watch over him.

 

“...Why?” he asks. Noraa has fallen asleep between his wings, and Maphas has tucked her under the large blanket draped over him. Her small fingers have tangled in his hair, where she earlier twisted complex braids to make perfect the nest his hair has been for ten thousand years. 

Maphas, still on his back, rummages through one of the sacks the other children brought him and drops something down into the cradle of Illidan’s arms where he rests his head. It smells of wheat and sugar, and he deduces it to be some sort of baked good.

 

“It’s a muffin,” Maphas says. “I promise it’s not poisoned. We eat enough of them to know. The Muffin Man always gives us the day-old ones, so sorry if it’s a bit stale.”

 

“You still... have not answered my question, child,” Illidan grumbles, but he takes a bite from the muffin. It’s good, in the way that only eating after a few days of not doing so can be.

 

“I’m not a kid,” Maphas snaps. He takes a breath and centers himself, likely in some self-taught meditation. “Sorry. Just, I’m years and years older than these guys. As for why…”

 

The other children sitting around the fire fall silent, obviously waiting for Maphas’ response.

 

“...you’re obviously just very tired. Very old. You’re not going to hurt us, or anyone, I think, and if we told the adults, there would just be a lot of fussing, which isn’t what you need. I originally wanted to go get more help, but the others made me realize that. You can stay here for a while, and we’ll make sure you’re okay. Rest.”

 

Illidan breaks off a few more pieces of muffin, and while he drops some crumbs, most of it ends up in his mouth. He doesn’t bother to search them out, simply chews on what he has. This time, he attempts to savour the taste a bit more, but he is still ravenous. The muffin disappears in just a few more bites, and he settles back onto his arms, tired out yet again. This is getting frustrating, this continuous tiredness. He’s trying to go with it, let himself rest, but it isn’t going away, at least not yet. 

 

Maphas clears his throat. “Can — can I ask…” He’s obviously uncomfortable. “About your blindfold? I mean… uh. Are you blind?”

 

Illidan huffs quietly, wondering if he can get the words out and how to make the explanation child-friendly. ‘My eyesight was stolen by the leader of the Burning Legion’ isn’t exactly something children as small as the ones around him (who have again gone silent again, waiting) should have to hear.

 

This time he is able to get the words past his lips, though they are quiet; almost whispered, and said in short bursts with long pauses in between. “While I am not completely blind, my eyesight… is different to how it once was - to how you see — I cannot truly see colour- my mind will impose colours on my sight when I focus. I see magic. If I focus I can… see the… outlines… of… objects… and through… solid things… but I am… too tired.” He presses his face further into his arms (almost  _ nuzzling  _ them), not sure what he’s hiding from. 

 

Why can’t he just sleep forever?

 

Maphas hums softly, then stands to rearrange the children, bullying them into curling up around Illidan, who cannot bring himself to protest. “It’s late,” he says softly while doing so. “I set a few tripwires so nothing can come too close, and we’re only a few hundred feet from the city. The guards know we’re here, so they will come if we scream. We’re safe, you’re safe, and we all need to sleep.”

 

...How does he know exactly what to say? Illidan lies still as several of the children end up lying over his legs or against his chest. Noraa is still in prime position on his back, and the warmth from the fire and the children - even Maphas, who curls against Illidan’s side - is indeed lulling him back to sleep.

 

He lets the darkness take him once again, hoping that things will be clearer in the morning.

 

.

.

 

He wakes to the sound of singing in Thalassian, and clapping.

 

_ “...Who  _ _ will you have for nuts in May, _

_ Nuts in May, nuts in May, _

_ Who will you have for nuts in May, _

_ On a cold and frosty morning...” _

 

The singing falters as he grunts and tries to move around a bit, stiff after the hours on the ground. He can smell dew on the grass and quickly deduces that it must be early morning. Not frosted, but damp. The smell is the cleanest scent he’s encountered on Outland in quite some time.

 

After using his stiff arms to lever himself into a sitting position Illidan stretches, the blanket falling around him as his hands brush the ceiling of the little shelter. His rib twinges, and he hurriedly pulls his wings flush to his body, not wanting to knock the structure over, and then pulls at the blanket, bringing it up and over them to cocoon himself in warmth. He brings his knees up, even, and makes himself small as the clapping picks back up, the children having apparently gotten their fill of staring. There are more of them here than there were last night, and he can only assume that the children who went home have since returned.

 

His thoughts have sped up, he notices, though he is still definitely sluggish. He opens and shuts his mouth a few times, but something tells him he isn’t going to be talking much today. He rubs at his forehead, recognising the headache as a symptom of his dehydration, and then turns his attention to the children. Once again Maphas is to the side, assumedly reading. Illidan doesn’t try to focus his sight, aware that the headache will only worsen.

 

Illidan swallows.

 

He’s going to have to ask. Somehow, the idea of talking right now fills him with dread. He shakes his head for a moment, and then feels somebody’s gaze on him. 

 

It’s Maphas. The draenei shuffles closer, and presses something into his hand. “Here. It’s water.” It is indeed a waterskin, and Illidan fumbles with the cap for a moment before getting it open. Before drinking, he gives Maphas a little nod of thanks, grateful to the extreme that he didn’t have to force words from his unwilling lips.

 

The water is cool and sweet, and he drinks most of the contents of the skin before he can bring himself to stop and breathe. Maphas is still watching him, he notices, but he doesn’t care right now. The child means well, whatever he is thinking.

 

(Maphas is thinking, who did this to him? Who forged him into this tired, sad creature that nearly killed himself through self-neglect? Who cares not for his own existence? Maphas is in training to be a priest of the Sha’tar, and one of their most important edicts is compassion.) 

 

He hands back the skin and then pulls the blanket around himself tightly, almost tearing the fabric against his wings for his efforts. It is a very soft blanket that feels good against his roughened skin - and it hasn’t ripped yet, despite the harsh treatment.

 

“Elekk!” A small body barrels into his legs and clings there, and Illidan frees one hand to pat Noraa’s head even as she starts trying to climb him once again. It takes a bit of shuffling, but Noraa gets him to lower his legs enough that she can sit on his lap. He offers her back the toy she gave him, but she pushes it towards him. “For you!” she insists. 

 

Illidan doesn’t know what to think. Even if he wanted to talk, he doubts his brain will form the words. He shuffles backwards until he can press his back and wings against a tree trunk, and does so, squeezing the skin against bark until it’s almost painful, even with the blanket as a buffer. 

 

Noraa tries to follow, however Maphas, who has been watching closely, reaches over and pulls her into his lap and begins whispering in her ear. 

 

And then Illidan buries his face in his knees, breathing suddenly ragged and heavy. He can’t  _ live _ like this. How is he supposed to function if the smallest things send him skittering away like a nervous deer? His arms tighten around his legs, pulling his hooves closer to the rest of him.

 

Then he hears something. Running hooves. The sound of an adult draenei, or a demon. When he looks to the source the colours of the being show as Light, not Fel. He sighs quietly, and ducks further into the shadows. His hair is still in the intricate braids of last night, he notices, but they are loose enough that the headache is probably only dehydration-motivated.

 

This was never going to last.

 

He wonders if he can stand or if he will be executed here on the grass, or dragged away to some prison. He quietly hopes for a swift death rather than the silent insanity of his cell.

 

“Maphas, are you in there?” The adult is standing to the side, and can’t see in. Maphas glances at Illidan and then quickly crawls out of the structure, pulling Noraa behind him. Illidan is left alone to rest his head on his knees and listen.

 

“Yes, Papa. What is it?”

 

Illidan looks down at the stuffed toy that Noraa gifted him, picks it up to examine it. 

 

It has magic to it. 

 

Not a lot, and not a controlled spell, merely intent and power directed. A wish for sweet dreams, he deduces after a few moments. He presses a hand to his mouth, touched beyond words once again by this child. 

 

“Maphas, this morning I was called before V’eru and A’dal.” Illidan’s ears prick up slightly at the names of the Naaru. A’dal is the one who powers the wards around Shattrath. “They told me that you, and a number of the children, were sheltering a certain individual.”

 

Illidan contemplates just speaking up, letting this charade end. He can't bring himself to even open his mouth.

 

“So what if they did?” Maphas is a stubborn one, apparently.

 

“A’dal is wise, son. You know that. He asked me to go to you in order to offer sanctuary to the person you are so valiantly protecting.”

 

_ Sanctuary? Since when did he deserve- _

 

If he could cry, Illidan would be weeping. He squeezes his eyelids anyway and presses his knees into his eye sockets, trying desperately to keep his breathing quiet and steady.

 

Maphas is silent for a time, and then. “Oh, thank the Light!” he says, and there is the sound of rustling clothes. Illidan pictures a hug between the boy and his father, and a genuine smile curves his lips for the first time in… well, it’s been a while.

 

Illidan is not okay. But maybe, just maybe, he  _ could _ be.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to llamastheflying, who is my lord and saviour and has done so much beta work on this fic! 
> 
> Also thanks to the Disaster Elves discord in general for supporting my writing of this. <3


End file.
